All We Do
by PrettyUnteal
Summary: It can be seen that our actions have consequences. For some, these consequences weigh heavily. For others? There is no effect that can be grand enough to satisfy. Still...There are those who want to heal the damage we've done. It's hard to believe that all can exist peacefully. (Set directly after The Dark Knight ends)
1. Chapter One:After the Fall

_**Hello, Hello. I've had this old story saved from my last account and I didn't like where it was going then and quit it before I forgot how to get back into it. But I've re-vamped it and figured I'd repost to see if anyone had an interest. It's going to be a Joker/OC and a Bruce/OC but mostly it's going to be about the nature of Gotham and how human instinct tends to guide our morals and experiences. Sorry if that's vague! There won't be a lot/any romance at first, it's not that kind of story (which I think is more realistic given who we are talking about). This chapter is very Bruce-centric. And just to remind you all, at the end of the Dark Knight, Batman has taken the fall for the supposed death of Harvey Dent and the people Dent killed. If you have the time, let me know what you think.**_

 _ **...**_

The light that Harvey Dent emitted was seen by every hopeful eye, for once; the sarcasm began to cease. The Batman could only do so much, he could only save them, scrape the city of Gotham off the tar and paste it against the wall. But it was Dent, that could glow, Dent's was the image that could water and care for a brighter Gotham, for enlightenment. The man waving the gun at Gordon's son, his lifeline; was twisted into something different, a invaluable work of art splintered into streams of canvas, Gotham's white Knight. He no longer glowed from an inner light; he burned and writhed in the flames forced inside his every orifice.

Perhaps he would sympathize with the man at a later time, given his ability to do so only previous to this. But turning his wretched features to the dirt, the familiar bile rose in his throat almost afraid it would show in the words that left his lips. For all he could currently feel was regret.

Regret, physical pain, and then…nothing.

He had been strangely glad to run. It felt, in a way, liberation to be crucified. To be given up, to have no one expect anything of you. What hadn't felt good was the sudden wrenching pain in his legs. In his minds' eye, he could see his bones moving, grinding, then lifting, and then scraping against each other with every stride in his escape.

Then came the dogs. Barreling dogs who didn't care what had been a noble deed, and who didn't have the chance for any failure except that of their masters. The same men in blue who pursued the batman were those that idealized or detested him long before today.

The feel of the motorcycle between his thighs did nothing to ease the world that was already spinning. The navigation of Gotham's chaotic alleyways became increasingly more difficult as he rode on. The tips of his fingers and his legs numb underneath, his tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, unable to focus, the dark knights mind whirred beneath his faux face. He guessed, that this was what it would feel like, if he ingested the color gray.

At one point, he could no longer explain if it was him, his bike, or the back streets of Gotham that were wobbling violently to his already offended form. He'd barely had time to still the machine in realization for him to fall bodily to the ground, his vision not following the laws of physics that his head should allow given it seemed to roll all the way up. Further, and further into his skull, and the man beneath the mask found that his irises had disappeared into his head, and all the left was gray.

He drifted into a scenario of his mind's own creation. No longer able to remember how he'd arrived here, his response thoroughly lacked emotion by observing the sky, and the seemingly endless sands that surrounded it. The desert. But he'd never seen a desert when it was cloudy. The shades of neutrals were intensified without the light to merit them real saturation. Naturally, the unnatural sight of a desert in the middle of Gotham could be easily be explained by physical and mental trauma—and he would need that explanation later.

But he had nothing to do, so he waited and watched the ash sand shift above him like clouds.

Until the roar of a very familiar sound started approaching him at an alarming rate. His own batcar bearing down on him with strangely wild determination, its headlights having been a gaze locked onto his form. His hand went out to stop the car, but not to dodge, thinking he still had power over it. But the realization of seeing the skin of his forearm and hand bared to him, was the shocking revelation that he was no longer in the bat suit. And the vehicle wasn't going to stop for Bruce Wayne.

A dream, a dream. He knew it was a farce the moment he focused his eyes on a machine much more like a dog rather than his Batmobile.

The growl of the motor had forced his mind away from the false reality, and spilled his awareness into a world that tended to hurt a whole lot more. Strangely enough, the rumble of sound seemed to follow him, his shoulders and arms tensed up when he realized there was an immense canine over him. Assuming that it was more than likely keeping watch over him to verify his hunt, the bat also cursed his fate bitterly. Why was it always dogs lately?

"Man, put that fucking thing away, it's pissing it off!"

"Well, what the- _what the hell am I supposed to_ _ **do**_? Man you know there's two of us and one of him, just keep my fucking back man."

"It's not **worth** it. This is _trouble"_

The conversation was seemingly going in the wrong direction. Pissing who off? Everything was in water, and still he could feel the sand that accompanied his thoughts—making them heavy. He could no longer assume that he was in the dark or whether his vision was two shakes from failing yet again. He was on the ground, he knew because of the awful taste in his mouth that could only be identified as passing out in the filth of Gotham's underbelly. But these were not the words of a trained officer. Finally forced to pry open an eye, he realized that there was no vicious animal bearing down on him, but he had a marvelous view of his rear end. This discovery was soon followed by the fact that the dog was standing between him and the men who were talking. The pair were equally blurry to his eyes and he was forced to acknowledge the mental sand was affecting his vision as well.. Eyes drifting down to glance at the body language he found the first one who spoke was the one looking incredulously at the other who was only half through pulling a gun from his pocket. Upon testing the mutt in front of him, he'd then proceeded to attempt to even tighten his hold on the weapon causing the dog to raise his shackles, the sound that came from him produced chills. He could now even hear the fevered breathing of the two men and stretched his mental capacity to the rest of his body.

Uncomfortably sticking to the suit were the battle injuries he acquired over this hell of a day, and he was sure something was broken, or at least a large ripped muscle in his back. The alarm stemmed from elsewhere. He didn't have the clearest memory of what happened before he'd toppled off his bike but he was absolutely positive that he had, in fact; been near his bike when that happened. So where was his bike? Subtly trying to move his head to create a better knowledge of the situation he found he was no longer out in the back streets or even an alley. But what appeared to be an open skeleton of a building. This find was stumped completely by the choking pain flowering beneath his neck. At where his collar bone met the stretch of his shoulder, had instantly flamed. The sound of a gunshot was enough to pull him out of his reverie, and he waited with his nose barley sticking out above the dark water of sleep. The dog, did not fall like he'd expected and within the extent of the crack that resounded off the lonely unused walls he was currently encased in, several things happened.

Before the echo even had time to respond to the vicious sound, the dog had lept up into the air grabbing hold of the offender's leg. Body shutting down in it's stubborn pursuit of health, he numbly observed as the second stranger raised his pistol to fire it into the dog, the sound of shock emitting from a wide opened mouth as it ripped him down, his skull smacking hard against the concrete made to serve as a floor. Falling back into his mind, the bat watched idly and feeling without purpose as another shot rang true, though from a different area. A woman entered the mix, with and forced tone, hoarse as the bark of the canine.

"Back off! Or I'll let his sister go…"

At this point, Bruce had strangely decided this conversation no longer applied to him. Nothing could be more important than what he thought was a bullet wound. With a grunt he forced his neck to turn enough to look at what he thought would be a weeping hole in his shoulder and instead he only saw his Kevlar. Almost as if for an explanation he'd shifted his attention back to the dog's rear end. Even from this angle he could see the dog was well prepared to leap into the throat of the man who held the gun. The man who held the gun, however, was instantly much less willing to fire.

The third player in their mix was a woman, he could tell by the voice, but more importantly another massive canine was in her tow. The dog was probably larger than the "sister" that currently guarded the batman from these invaders. Unconsciously deciding that he'd had enough of the situation, his eyes had closed again, and he'd drifted.

He'd had worse than this. He could feel himself want to get up, to move. To check his injuries; but most importantly, to stand up. Resurfacing from the world of sand had been a disorienting process. He'd felt that strange traveling sensation, like his body was being dragged across the ground. Comically enough; this time the sensation was based off truth. The snort of the dog's snout so close to his ear was heard through a filter that his mind had no doubt installed of its own accord. A dog was dragging him. His six foot frame was being strewn across and moved by a dog? Well sure, it was a big dog but…Oh, that was why. The canine wasn't his only unassigned tow truck. The pull on his right was thankfully absent of whiskers. Attempting to skim through his previous consciousness he found himself disappointed to recall he couldn't find who the hell was dragging him. Yet, the memory of being injured, of pain, now that was crystal clear. So why couldn't he sense the stings, pulls, and throbbing of his body now? It was an Algebra test at six thirty in the morning, it was Tetris while he was drunk, it was a memory clouded by infuriating packing peanuts; and somehow it was fine. He could easily write the movement off as drifting across the ground.

….

His previous experience of what he thought was consciousness must have been a delusion built by his brain. For the next time Batman graced the world with his grim open stare, he most certainly felt the pain of his injuries. The room was dark save for two candles by the bedside that illuminated a glass of water which was ignored. Instead, the mind beneath the mask set to work. The room was clean without any offending stenches and his eyes were already well adjusted to the dark which was almost a regret given the shadow of the dog in a mostly dark room had been enough to give him a start that clenched all the muscles in his upper body in preparation to rise immediately. Fortunately, the dog seemed rather apathetic, and considerably less threatening. At the man's tension, however, he tilted his ears. Bruce made a scowl that hurt his head, but didn't stick to his mask like he'd been expecting. His heart rapidly developed the habits of a blacksmith, filling each and every vein with steel. He couldn't feel his mask. Frantically his fingers searched his face, his hair, his neck.

Bare.

Naked, exposed, stripped.

Save for his collar bone. Continuing his needy examination he found stitches, on the back of his hand he found an IV. On his ribs he found bandages, on his leg more stitches and some sort of antiseptic jelly by the smell and feel of it. Was this…? What was this? Where was his ignorance? The numb caused by ripping his body into pieces, by crucifying his humble alias, by Rachel's death, and Dent's fall to earth that was so forceful he shattered it and went straight to hell? He tried to will it all back, pull it to him so at this moment he would not care **so much** that someone had seen his face. As usual, fate was not so kind, there was the gentle creek of the door, that produced the reaction of the watchful mutt even though he didn't move, Bruce could distinctly hear the beast's tail thumping against the wood floor. Deciding it was best not for the stranger entering the room to notice his tension so instead he focused it into making a plan the first chance he got to…well the first chance he hoped to get to do something to possibly better this situation.

It wasn't a saucy criminal sauntering confidently into the room, nor was it a child innocent to the concepts of; secrecy, crime fighting, and darkened heroes. Something in between. A woman. Full grown, white lace shirt, strange sort of button up sweater filled with pattern, jeans, and mismatched socks. Most importantly, a lowered head. She'd went to the dog, silently offering it something from her hand. The silence, save for the dogs sloppy tongue over her palm would have been awkward, if she knew she had any conscious company, and fortuitous circumstance would have it that she would look up at the thought.

Her lips parted as if she'd uttered an 'oh' but no sound could be heard. The Bat watched her with a stony expression he usually wore under the mask. But he himself was having a bit of an identity crisis under the circumstance. Given if she knew both his faces, which one should he put on? This was all unnecessary given she'd made a jerking motion toward the door, as if she was going to fear in flight.

Directly assuming the worse; that she was not in fact the one who brought him here and was frightened he was awake because she was supposed to have retrieved her superior before he'd woken, Bruce did something that would no doubt deserve the guilt that would well up in him later.

Used to fighting through physical and emotional pain that would paralyze a lesser man, the blankets were hardly a problem, neither were the wide steps he'd taken, nor was the form of a creature with arms half the width of his own, and the IV was thankfully on a stand with wheels so it didn't rip from his arm. She jolted in wide-eyed pain as he jerked her against the wall, her lower back nearly impaled by the doorknob now jammed into her right kidney area. But there was no sound above a dull thump, he was careful to do it silently, and furthering that theme, he'd clasped a hand over her lips that nearly covered half of her face. Breathing hard as he recognized that pain of newly sewn wounds stretching on skin unusually taught, he allowed himself to lean on her also to ascertain she didn't have any weapons.

She did not whimper, or close her eyes, or grace him with shaking, but there was no question with her stare that she was most decidedly intimidated. Bruce, the Batman, could only hope that his voice wouldn't shake with the exertion that this had required.

"Who's out there?"

He asked, his voice slipping in and out of the tone that belonged to the Bat, unable to comprehend who he wanted to be in this situation. She shook her head immediately, and he realized dimly she was waving her hand at the dog who had started in a threatening growl, one he'd heard before.

Of course, this was the owner of the canine who'd stood in front of him, and the pair of men he'd witnessed before. All right, well that explained that. He searched her eyes for surprise or fear, but in all likelihood if she was the owner of the dog, and the one who found him here, she was not in work of some higher power that existed behind the off white door. Releasing her mouth, and some of the pressure on her body the pair stared at each other. He; at her eyes, and she, somewhere near his nose…then forehead…then over his shoulder, then his mouth, then up. Realizing she wasn't going to say anything was when she looked down within herself, no doubt pulling herself into her mind, her tongue running over her bottom lip as if to ensure that it was free.

"Who are you?"

He inquired as Bruce now, though his tone uncharacteristically harsh next to the usual velvet. Her lips parted, in small quivering motions before she shut her eyes, and given the lack of space he could distinctly sense her heart speed. It took a second for her to make the slightest of sounds, and even then it was nothing intelligible. Fuzzy from blatant bewilderment he came to the conclusion with wide eyes; she had a stutter. And a rather awful one at that given she was instantly beginning to panic when she couldn't force a word out. No doubt, being pressed against the door wasn't helping for any nerves that often made a stutter worse. But he could not let pity quell his heart. Instead, he cooled his voice and put additional space between the two of them as the dog to his right whined at the image before him, no doubt testing the waters. She'd waved at him again, and Bruce determined it would be best to ask yes or no questions to sate his justifiable curiosity. He couldn't keep standing forever, he was on one leg, and it was the side of his body with the broken ribs.

"Do you know who I am?"

A nod. She hadn't moved from the door looking as if he'd hung her on a hook by the back of her shirt. Bruce sighed.

"Is there anyone out there?"

A shake of her head. And somehow, he believed her, even though she didn't say a word, and she didn't even try to make eye contact he didn't really have much of a choice. He was safe now, with probably one of the few people in this city that would have saved him without wanting to offer him up for blood… at least immediately. He'd cleared away from her at this point, though completely not satisfied with the conversation he made the move to simply sit on the bed. Not that he had much of a choice, already the motion had caused his chest to swell with a pant and his forehead to gather sweat. The stranger, however, had different plans. For she'd moved much more elegantly this time, disappearing quietly behind the open door and shutting it with a click.

After at least a half an hour, he'd leaned against his borrowed pillow. He went through paranoia, acceptance, burning-eyed need for sleep, curiosity, nausea, grief, and acceptance of everything yet again, and then he felt…fidgety. Briefly, he'd wondered how long he'd been out. But he also needed a bathroom. Testing his legs, on the floor to see if he'd bothered anything he now came to notice that he was not, in fact rid of his suit entirely. The armor was gone, but the one who stitched him up had been so kind as to slip back the lining of his pants over his legs. It was…painful, but manageable.

He'd opened the door with caution that would not easily been thrown into the wind. And it wasn't much of a surprise that the dog followed him. Even while standing, it still came up near mid thigh on his rather lengthy form. Brushing up against him with a closeness he did not expect given the lack of wagging tale it probably wasn't of affection. Wondering the dog's purpose; he'd found himself in a kitchen. These homes, when originally built had been family oriented. Averaging on two to three bedrooms, with a charming kitchen and a sitting room they were homey and comfortable. But the poverty had stretched its lustful fingers out to even here. Now, you didn't raise families in these homes often . Most fell into disrepair, or controlled by much less conventional means of societal family. This however was, for lack of a better word; charming. It smelled like a home. One that was cooked in, slept in, and cared for. One that peeled and cracked in many places but held a soft light. The walls were all painted a soft warm color, making the room feel warm even on his chilled skin. The texture beneath his feet was only linoleum, but had the smell of lemon like it had recently been washed. There was a large ceramic tree without leaves off in the corner with notes attached to it he couldn't read from where he was standing, mostly due to the fact that even in here, everything was lit with candles. The habit usually associated with romance or perhaps being amish, was more practical given they were organized in pairs of two or three at a time in places where it was deemed necessary.

On the circular table, his eyes picked up the sight of a plate covered with a pot lid. Taking in the details, he'd also made the note that the door to the outside was double bolted, but no guard, no tripwire. Nothing, it appeared to be his own decision whether to leave or not. Not exactly what one would expect to find in Gotham's underbelly. But given the old fashioned construction of the home and the fact it appeared to be a stand alone house from the little that he'd seen and heard—this was probably no longer in the narrows. But instead, this could be old Gotham, farther away from the old center of the city and no less crime, but less of a population. But he couldn't leave when the thought of his identity was compromised. Now; everyone hated him. It didn't matter if he fell into civilian hands, the mob's, or the officials. So…What was the real circumstance? He should get to Alfred…Alfred would know…

The door across from him, painted a dark blue, opened cautiously having no doubt heard his door open as well. She'd taken off the sweater. There wasn't any heating in the house from what he could notice, but the candles kept it warm. Appearing much more comfortable from the other side of the room eyes of a currently indiscernible color observed him from the other side. Finding him stationary and silent, she'd suddenly broken into the sort of smile that would weaken the knees and strengthen the heart of anyone he could think of.

"I figured you wouldn't stay down for long…"

Her voice was even, cheerful. With the tone that suggested she thought of everything she said before it escaped her lips. Gesturing to the table she pointed out what he'd questioned before.

"It's for you, but only if you want it. I would suggest you eat but-"

"Who are you?"

He'd questioned again. The smile faded, her tongue running across her bottom lip as she'd done before.

"Mary."

"Mary…?"

"Mary Harth"

Going through the files of names in his head to attempt to match a name and therefore perhaps a purpose to the strange set of cards having dealt themselves, she surprisingly interrupted him.

"Born December twelfth, no arrests or misdemeanors, I was not Gotham raised."

Listening to her, he'd had a shift of heart and took a seat at the kitchen table. Her words had the feel of one that was a little too flat to be spontaneous. But sincere. Even the hardwood of the chair was soothing to a man recovering from injury. He'd realized she'd probably rehearsed this since he'd saw her last.

"Where did you learn to treat people?"

"Wu- Wel…I h-had to."

"Why?"

The confidence that she had now, in comparison to the woman in his room made the well trained vigilante both curious and paranoid. She was…pretty. Very pretty. But rather than luring him in, the observation made him considerably more weary. People oftentimes reflected what they did, and many pretty women he ran into in times of physical vulnerability were very rarely harmless. But no, she didn't look like the kind of pretty that would be some trained assassin. She looked like the babysitter a child would have a crush on. He could see her as a woman who got married to her childhood sweetheart of fifteen years. Was it this that dulled his sense to danger? Was he deep in a trap he couldn't get out of? The mob didn't go for this affect, and neither did any villain he'd encountered. As she skimmed her tongue over her bottom lip yet again, he found himself mirroring the action, his mouth stuck with thirst, his stomach hollow, and he was reminded yet again of his need to find the bathroom.

"My baby brother had a neurological disorder that he could not feel pain. We di-didn't live with our parents so I ha-ha-ha-had to take care of him, you learn things faster under those c-c-ccc-circumstances." Her eyes had lowered again, he'd sucked the confidence out of her without meaning to. But she didn't look to be contemplating, or upset. Just, vacant for a moment.

"Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis…" He'd muttered, catching her interest immediately once more. "Since he couldn't feel pain…he'd probably inflicted some pretty awful wounds on himself." She hadn't been expecting any sort of emotional response and he felt her anxiety spike.

"Yes…well, taught me fast. But uh-" She smiled lightly, the grin a bit sheepish but her lips quivered. The dog had abandoned his side, nudging into hers instead. How was this the creature with the harsh bark of a voice he'd heard in the alleyway? Bruce couldn't label it. She was probably as good at throwing her voice as he was. "N-n-ever had to use morphine before, so you were kind, uh, of my guinea pig." She laughed, the sound was nervous but managed to stay pleasant. Mary's anxiety was infectious, and the dim light of the candles made it all seem a bit more surreal.

She was so tense, while he felt as he was fading into a puddle on her chair. She calmed visibly at the dog's attention at her side. He wondered if that was the same animal that had guarded him.

"I th-th-think, I gave you too big of a dose the first time, I mis-miscalculated your weight while you were still in that suit. But I mean, I couldn't move you when you were like that…" As if the action required all her concentration, Mary buried her fingers into the dog's fur. He noticed now that the dog was not as large as he originally thought. To his barely-conscious mind he'd thought it to be the size of a monster—a hellhound. Still, it came up to her waist. "I just didn't want you to wake up… and start swinging, you know?"

He nodded, but stood. "Bathroom?"

...

Once in the safety of the bathroom he'd purposefully avoided the mirror at first, the candles were in here as well so this was not hard to do. Finally given the chance to relieve himself he found himself too distracted for the moment to do so. The bathroom was outdated and small, like the rest of his house. But with the same charming details as on the outside of the door. More shakey than he was in front of her he half sat and half fell onto the pink toilet. Drawing his hand through his hair he felt as if half of his troubles were residing there. Sweat from pain, blood from hurt, grease from time and continued stagnancy. Unable to decide which he wanted to do more; toilet, shower, food, get up and find his suit or curl up and die—he instead to sit there, half curled over his knees. Having been unable to decide whether he was batman or Bruce or neither, he decided that whatever he was he was hurting.

True, he had let them capture the clown. But he had lost his best friend… the girl he was in love with. He lost Gotham's white knight. And thought the public would go on thinking that Harvey Dent was the pillar of light that they always wanted—he realized that he had relied far more on Dent than most of the population. He'd dared to hope that he was free… As much as he'd lost, it was the future that he mourned now. So the present seemed inconsequential. Plus, the morphine was wearing off.

Attempting to put a hand on the bathtub and force himself to a standing position, he wasn't ready to support his own weight and his hand slipped out from under him comically quick and he smacked his face on the edge of the tub with an immediate groan. It took all of four seconds for her to be in that bathroom that was already too small for his size. She didn't touch him but hovered over him with palpable concern. He forced breath from his lips in a dry laugh that turned into a cough. She was just like her dogs. He could practically see her with her ears perked up, her stance firm and tail wagging in a questioning manner. It was only after he pathetically tried to lift himself from his new status on the floor that she leaned down. Hesitant to touch him for someone who apparently removed his suit—he wondered for the first time how she did it. Was she shocked by its' defense mechanisms? He only now realized the bandages on the fingertips of her right hand and realized that she probably did. Her strength felt substantial as she fought to lift him to his feet and made a move to the door before he stopped her. "No… No… Bathroom first." The strained voice was weak enough to catch her interest, but also made it far more likely she would listen to him. And he doubted she'd want to stay here and help. She looked at him with a question that he felt rather than heard or saw on her face. "I can do it"

After she reluctantly and silently left, holding her hands away from her as if they seemed strange from touching him, he realized he must smell horrific. Finishing with the bathroom he even leaned one hand on the sink and fought to wash his hand and run the water over his face. Despit the modest action, he did feel cleaner. As the morphine wore off, the pain returned in waves, but so did a steady sense of awareness. She was waiting on the other side of the little kitchen, looking at him with her arms crossed. It was now that he realized one of the dogs was asleep in a bed he could see by the front door and the other padded up to him with a rolling tongue. He realized naturally that this was undoubtedly a service dog, and his stress brought the canine toward him. It was half-heartedly that he brought his hand to the rough dark fur, and strangely it did instill a sense of calm.

"I'm going to need some… explanations…" His measured speech was as slow as hers, and hesitatnt only because he didn't know what he wanted to know. "You can have them." She then sat slowly down at the table, her eyes steadily making contact with his collar bone. "I made tea." It was plainly an offer that he could refuse and instead found that he didn't. Sitting beside his untouched food was now a cup filled with an undetermined liquid. Not knowing which question to ask first, he was surprised when she spoke again.

"Something has ha-happened… I know…I know you'll want to know…But it will hurt you." Vacant eyes flickered up toward her at this moment. "But I ha-have to say-y it…H-h-he got…out." She brought her eyes to the table as if feeling some deep personal shame. Despite the ambiguity, the sinking feeling that sank in his stomach relayed the truth of his statement. The Joker didn't stay behind bars.

It didn't matter how he got out all that mattered was that he did. His fingers clenched in on themselves as he stared at the lines in the tables. In his line of vision she delicately pushed a newspaper toward him across the table. Stubbornly his eyes remained fixed, unable to move even the muscles to glance at what she was showing him.

"…I—it's dangerous out. People don't know what to b-belive…" He'd stood with sudden strength, forgetting pain as quickly as he could he was already walking to the room, trusting that the suit would appear in his line of vision. "Please… y-you don't understand e-e-e-everyone is looking f-for y-y-y-you…" In the effort to relay her insistence her voice got so stuck in her throat he could barely hear her. Even so, he wasn't listening. Leaning heavily against the door his dark eyes scoured the small room. The rumpled bed, more candles, stacks of newspapers, books, magazines, clothes…

"They don't know what to d-do they think you _killed_ Ha-Ha-Harvey!" He could feel that she wanted to grab him, the frustration in her own language pattern was nearly painful. Unable to find his suit, he closed his eyes tightly at the domestic scene in frustration but what was surprising was the burn in his eyes and his throat.

"I **did** kill him…" His breathing shuddered in his lungs, suddenly feeling entirely enclosed. "…I took him away, this was my fault. It's all my fault." Light couldn't exist in such a dark place, and he felt that he had created this darkness. It was inside of him and worked it's way out until it wrecked everything he came in contact with. And it was darkness that he met when his legs gave out beneath him. Immediately the world had spun and he felt the sand once more, pushing over him and forcing him into that tiny bed again.

It was seconds later that he felt a warm snout snuffling over his face, a hot tongue soon following.

"Please…Please rest…you need rest…" She was muttering over him and his head rolled and she was slipping the IV back into his arm.

.


	2. Chapter Two:Staying Down

The next time he woke up, it was the sun that greeted him. He looked over instinctively at the dog who he knew would be parallel with the bed. He was counting on that. The morphine made him feel like a heavy goo and it was with a frustrating lack of speed that he took his practiced hand to the IV. However, he found it had already been removed. Apparently Mary had deemed him well enough to at least not require morphine anymore. For the first time he took stock of his injuries. Dog bite, knife wounds, and broken ribs and collarbone. The collarbone explained why he'd thought that he was shot by those two morons. Speaking of which… He sat up enough to put his face into his hands and rest it there, at least his left pinkie was broken but had been put into a splint. His ribs immediately reminded him that any sort of quick movement would not be tolerated. But what had happened to those men? How did this girl find him and why was he still here? Also…where the _hell_ was his bike?

When he shuffled his feet out, the dog whined and picked its head up. Amazing. It was the same breed of dog that had obeyed the Joker's commands and given him the rather sizable bite that now sported neat stitches. And yet this dog looked like a completely different animal, all honey and concern as he tried to get to his feet. The dizziness, he assumed, could be at least partially fixed by going out and getting food. He hoped there was more than what had been on the dinner table last night, but he wasn't feeling picky. Once realizing he could not be convinced to stay in bed, the dog stood immediately at his side and Bruce realized that this was meant to be his leaning post if necessary. Hobbling toward the door he wondered dimly if this girl would have pants for him—the ones he was wearing undoubtedly had more bodily fluids than acceptable for clothing.

If he'd expected anything but her sitting awkwardly at the kitchen window when he walked out—then he would have been mistaken. It was at this moment that he was struck dumb with how hard he went after her when she first came in the room he woke in. Hot embarrassment had the decency to flush his cheeks as she gave him a hesitant smile.

"Do you w-want a muf-f-fin?"

Once food was in front of him it was impossible to forget his hunger. He drank three cups of water and finished an entire row of muffins from the muffin tray that had been waiting on the stove. He realized, uncomfortably, that it was probably all for him. Looking over her he made this conclusion for several reasons.

It was doubtful she was used to company. Seeming to be an incredibly awkward hostess, she squirmed under the pressure of having to make small talk with him. This wasn't a person that talked at length, and she often stared into space. The only way he could label it was that she acted a bit like an elderly person; infinitely kind, a little nutty, but it was the quiet way she held her tea and the way she couldn't stand any sort of silence that unnerved him. But the chocolate eyes of the vigilante missed very few things. And he spotted all of her physical habits that took over when she wasn't stuttering.

She spun the ring on her finger, licked her bottom lip, didn't make worthy eye contact, tapped her fingers, chewed on her bottom lip…yes the list went on and on. And he couldn't detail it all given his obvious exhaustion which she did not fail to notice. In response she began making scrambled eggs.

"Y-y-you ne-need your strength if-f you're going to t-t-try to fight me ag-g-ain." It took him a moment to realize that she was joking, her wry smile flicking on her face and disappearing before he'd even had the chance to respond.

"Why scrambled eggs?" He questioned, reminding himself of what he'd observed of her so far and that she was not one to be pressured into responding on heavy topics. As a reward for his observance she ducked her head and grinned.

"Good for you…" Her hand found her hair, piled up and messy. It took him this long to realize she was still in her pajamas. Looking around the small home he quickly concluded that he didn't see an opening to another bedroom.

"Where did you sleep?" He didn't necessarily mean for it to be a difficult question. But her eyes stayed unfocused on the table and her mouth opened soundlessly. Raising his characteristically lowered brows, Bruce glanced at her while chewing the remainder of the scrambled eggs. "You gave me your bed…?" She did. And he knew it even before she nodded.

She gave him her bed, and her dog, and was cooking for him. And was, frankly, half-terrified of him. And it wasn't because he was Batman. Or Bruce Wayne. He was a person and that was as scary as it seemed to get for her. Except, of course, when she was threatening fully grown men armed with guns and walking around alleyways picking up strangers? No, something wasn't fitting. "…Mary?"

Shocked at her own name, she stared at him with a stoic intensity that completely masked her anxiety.

"What happened to my bike?"

...

The bike had been here for five days. Bruce kept his face stoic when she revealed the time frame that he'd been here. The Joker hadn't even gotten to the prison before someone had sprung him. Gotham was in a panic. Their hero had fallen, the other hero had died, and the man that seemed to have instigated everything was on the loose…again. So needless to say he felt this incredible clawing urge to put back on his suit, to go out there and fix things. But strangely enough he just stared at the bike in her one care garage.

"I need to call Alfred." It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd prompted her throughout the story. It was apparent that her stutter was stress based and he found it evaporated easily with his patience and lack of interruptions. So this statement only brought her eyes to swivel to where he stood with a simple nod on her part. Granted, he didn't need her permission and was already going to the bike and pressing through to the telephone that was built in. The phone rang twice in the otherwise cluttered garage before Alfred picked up.

"Well about bloody time." The clipped accent gave Bruce an immediate warmth that he decided to stow for later. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mary move to disappear back into the house.

"Wait… Wait a second." He cautioned her and she stopped, staring at him blankly with her arms wrapped around her torso.

"Excuse me, Master Wayne, but I think five days is long enough to have been waiting." The retort was quick, the butler obviously assumed that Bruce was talking to him and the man didn't feel the need to correct him. "

Alfred. I need an update on the situation. I've been…I've been out of it these past couple days and it's time for a game plan."

During the conversation Bruce had many more details filled in that Mary wouldn't have known. It was not the mob that freed the Joker, instead, an unknown group had quickly organized against them. Blowing up part of the calvary for sport, the driver of the Joker's van had obviously been a double agent of sorts and could simply drive away in the calamity. The city's resources were truly left thin and only this morning did they find the van empty of all possible evidence. Alfred reported that there were no signs of any further trouble from the psychopath. The real issue was that it seemed unclear of who had more people hunting them; the Joker or the Batman? To her credit, Mary had stayed remarkably still, her only sort of movement was to absentmindedly stroke the dog at her side.

"And Alfred? I've currently fallen into some new company."

"Would this be company of the female persuasion?"

Alfred's assumption was correct, though he doubted the man could guess what sort of "female" he was actually with. More than likely Alfred probably assumed he'd shacked up with someone Bruce knew and was currently playing a loving boyfriend or fling and laying low while he healed.

"Yes. And I'm going to need you to run a name for me…Mary Harth"

His dark eyes slid over, holding Mary's gaze even as she stubbornly stared at his forehead.

"What are we looking for, sir?"

Bruce could practically hear the older man reading even as he'd inquired. "Anything… Anything stand out in particular?"

Mary had frozen entirely at this point save for the fingers that scratched and pulled at the skin of her arm.

"Well it's difficult to say what you'd find most interesting. Moved to Gotham three years ago, not much before that. Though there is an article about her brother being linked to terrorist activity. After she moved to Gotham however there are several legal interactions with the police including harboring a fugitive, possessing illegal narcotics, and obstruction of justice. She spent four months in prison but got out on good behavior. She graduated on a scholarship for track so there's a whole bit about that, mostly local things. She's currently unemployed—"

"I see. Thank you Alfred." Bruce interrupted in a benign tone though the tension in the room had not dissipated in the slightest.

"You're welcome sir. Will I be expecting you home for dinner then?"

"We'll see Alfred."

With that he'd disconnected the call, intending to shift up from his half seated position on the dog returned to his side when he'd stood; his slightly shaking hands recognized his melon sized head. Applying just enough pressure to make it easy for himself the massive thing hardly even flinched. He was now strongly considering investing in a dog for a sidekick…perhaps even this one. As he rose, his hawk like features glanced down to his unlikely caretaker. This whole thing was, absurd. She wasn't the only one who was awkward here, this man with two bodies trying to fit in both skins at once. Who was he in this room?

"…How can I believe, that you will not fetch someone and tell them you're caught the Batman?"

She raised her eyebrows, her eyes wide.

"Are you trying to tell me…you're the Batman?"

The unsettling thing was how smoothly the lie was perceived. If he hadn't heard her speak before, he would have thought that this was honesty. It seemed with her that the truth was much more likely to cause anxiety than a practiced lie. With a deep sigh, Bruce finally turned his attention to himself. He still wore the sturdy leggings that went under the batsuit, but he could also feel the pulsating of the wounds and bruises beneath the material. His torso was bare and colored with the malice that he'd faced, but it was the vision of the unlikely kindness that came from an undetermined source of motivation. Deciding to actively ignore her inquiry, the vigilante drew his hand threw his hair with a sigh that strained the broken ribs but also sharpened his focus.

"Tell me what you saw."

His voice held some of the authority that the growl of the Batman usually held, but the polite detachment of Bruce Wayne. He shifted to watch her carefully, his dark eyes probing at the situation as if he could get all answers from a glance. He was rewarded with her uncomfortably shifting her feet.

"You were kinda near… ay-eight and uh thirteenth? And I'd been w-walking and I he-heard you c-c-c-rash. Or I uh kinda thought you crashed but I knew something had happened? So I went…" I

t was this moment, she'd stopped talking her lips quivering with the effort that it took and her face reddening. He didn't feel much like offering up a reassuring smile but he relaxed his stance and took a slow half-step in her direction.

"I just want to know what happened, don't worry how I'm going to perceive it." It was a shot in the dark, really, he couldn't ascertain where her stress was coming from. But his attempt at reassurance wasn't far off from the mark because she at least took a placating breath. The dog which had been near him had taken this as a sign to go to his master instead and she fondly scratched the mutt's ears though her face didn't change. "What's his name?"

Blinking from her crashed train of thought she actually gave him a half smile. "Her… And her name is Yoko, she's a rottie."

Rottie. As in Rottweiler. As in a 110 pound potential monster that left a bite in him that still hurt terribly. And it was looking at her with nothing but rapt attention and affection. He let the silence fall as she actually leaned down to Yoko, more purposefully to rub her hands into the fur and put her forhead on the dog's brow. "You weren't conscious, you said something but I couldn't tell what it was, but I knew who you were…"

Thoughtfully now, and deliberately avoiding his attention. "I couldn't leave you there. I had JoJo watch over you while I went and borrowed my, uh, friend's car and then I had to drop it off at their place and then I had to drag you back here." She took this moment to suck her lips into her mouth, biting on them with a worried stare at her floor. "I d-don't know who those g-g-gu-guys ar-r-re. Or were… but th-they wanted you I th-think." Her eyes shifted his for the smallest second to his and he had that infinitesimal moment to observe a face maybe slightly younger than his but far more open.

Even after her eyes spun away he kept his gaze solidly on the top of her head feeling as he'd done far more than waking up, eating, and walking to the garage. Most would assume that her saving him would be a miracle. But he'd known very few miracles and very few coincidences in his life. Too few to not ask— "What were you doing walking around by yourself in the narrows?" He tried to keep his voice neutral but inwardly he was taking stake of his physical stature wondering if he was about to reveal a threat.

She was silent and her hands stilled on Yoko and the pup licked the very tip of her nose. Mary's mouth opened and closed and it was an uncomfortable eight seconds before she admitted. "Th-th-there are a-a-al-always people wh-who need help in the n-narrows…"

He nodded slowly. "So… I'm not the first person that you've helped."

She nodded her head quickly, seeming relieved. Apparently this was a secret she wasn't keen on talking about. But it did seem to energize her. "Sometimes it's victims, you know? Kids that g-get jumped walking home…" Her eyes turn down and the brief light she emitted seemed to quiet as she herself fell silent.

"But…" Bruce began, thinking carefully of the police record that Alfred had relayed to him through the communication device "it's not always the innocent." He moved toward her slowly closer to standing over her now and putting her in a more vulnerable position from where she was crouched on the ground. Even though Yoko looked up to him, noting the change in the body language, Mary kept her eyes and her body near to the ground. "I'd imagine that you'd see a lot of people from drug deals gone wrong… overdoses… prostitutes, fugitives…"

Her mouth had downturned at the corners before in the smallest of whispers had the courage to remind him; "Like you…" shifting her eyes back to his collarbone and even flickering over his face "Fugitives like you."

A humbling statement to be sure and he chewed the inside of his cheek subtly before breaking his stance to move out of the garage and held the door for her expectantly. "And people are going to be looking for me…and those men who'd found me in the alley are likely to be searching for me, or had bosses they informed I was in the area. I can't stay here." She nodded slowly, already having known this. But her head shot up a little too quickly at his next statement. "And neither can you."

She met his eyes, seemingly trapped by his statement. His voice was closer to the Bat's and his eyes appearing just as dark as they had in their mask. "You know who I am. And even if you didn't, it's likely you managed to escape the notice of everyone who's looking for me. Someone will have known that you helped me, and right now…" His voice trailed off, his lips were drawn into a sharp scowl. He felt cold… tired… old… done.

"I doubt there's anyone in the city that would be happy about what you've done." Moving further into the house he opened the door wider for her, expecting that she would have to come back inside.

"You can't stay here. You will be coming with me."

...

 ** _Two chapters in two days. Whew. I can't update a whole lot during the week unless I have time during student teaching, but since I wake up at 5:00am and get home at 6:00pm on most days, writing isn't in my energy. But I'm excited because I have the next chapters are really going to pick up a lot. I know the Joker is going to appear in the next chapter, don't know yet how much of him you'll get but it should be a good time, and hopefully a less morose Batman will enter the mix...but he's hurting, so we'll see!_**


	3. Chapter Three:How Did You Do It?

**_AN: This chapter has some more emo Bruce but will be picking up speed shortly. I definitely underestimated how much ground I had to cover before I started bringing the Joker into Mary and Bruce's twosome dynamic. Honestly I want to get to the action but having completed three chapters in three days has to be good enough for me! Let me know if you enjoy the chapter or if there's anything you think I should work on in particular. Mary is based off of one of my best friends and I'm pretty attached to her. But hey, if you want to see what I have pictured for her in my mind, let me know and I'll make sure to include an image or a description in the next chapter. Like I said before though, I don't have a lot of time to write so it's pretty rare that I'm updating on a weekend._**

 _ **But honestly I've been pretty possessed with this. After I found this in my old docs I've been fiending over it. I already have a pretty good idea of where it's going- and definitely an idea of a prequel that I will pitch later. I hope those who have read so far are enjoying it!**_

 **~ (+)~**

After returning inside, Mary seemed to contemplate what he said in some dreamy silence. He didn't know what to expect from her and continued to watch her wearily. The problem was her lack of reaction was relatively ambiguous. It could have been an absence of attachment to her current life, or perhaps a hidden-but-volatile reaction that would make her less likely to want to come along—therefore untrustworthy. So he watched her. He felt that he was on the edge of the building of Gotham as he normally was during the evenings, forever vigilante, watching, protector. But no, instead of an open city's night skyline—he had an outdated cozy kitchen. And in place of his protective instincts he was both a guest…and a guard.

His mind spun with the plans he knew he had to put into place, but couldn't' figure out where to start. If the Joker was loose but silent, there was very little reason to expect that it was without purpose. Or perhaps… Maybe the Batman no longer had an appeal. That thought left his insides still. The idea that the Joker might have believed that he had _won_ that the incorruptible figure of justice had been brought down to petty revenge. The Joker may have lost his other half. In which case, he might have lost his steam. Or suddenly have become much less specific in his demands for the city. Bruce doubted that man could ever do anything but destroy. So then it would be only a matter of time. On the other hand, perhaps the Joker knew, and was waiting to reveal? Bruce couldn't tell which scenario would be worse. It was the pessimist in him that refused to believe that the Joker could possibly be too injured to continue—or possibly have moved onto another city. The man had shown a deranged attachment to the conceptual idea of a Grand SuperHero that it was doubtful he could so easily abandon the city that had born him. Once again Bruce, the Batman, the fallen millionaire—felt himself wound up in the confusion he felt for the Joker.

Meanwhile, Mary didn't seem to know what to do with herself, she was pulling out dishes in the refrigerator and scooping them into dog bowls. Bruce hadn't seen both of them together and it was easy to see that one of them was larger than the other. But they barely glanced at him now that there was some beef-stew-looking concoction in their large metal bowls. Immediately their slobbering tongues filled the silence of the small kitchen and she stood up slowly to wash her hands. Looking back just enough to keep her in his peripheral vision he observed carefully for a reaction.

"I will have Alfred drive my car here so that it can transport us. You strike me as someone who wouldn't want the contact of the motorcycle…Plus you would be exposed." Bruce left out the fact that this conveniently meant he didn't have to control the motorcycle with his broken ribs and broken figure. Yes, the car was a good idea. "My motorcycle can send out a locating signal so he can find me..." It could work both ways actually, and more than likely the lack of the bike's motion in its presence of the narrows; Alfred had probably assumed it was an abandoned vehicle and not just shown up.

Still… Mary wasn't paying him any mind, she hadn't even turned to look at him. She was bringing the rest of the muffins out of their tray and putting them on the plate. Then she was scrubbing the pan. Then the other two dishes she had to wash were all stacked up. Then she was drying. But all the while, completely ignoring him. He let the silence hang and watched for tension in her shoulders, but he couldn't see any sign of stiffness that wasn't usually present in the anxious creature.

Finally; "Where will we go…?"

Bruce looked to his hands now, able to see her feet shift as she slowly turned to face him. The question hung with heavy concern in the air but she said it with that lightness that relayed she'd been practicing it in her head before she spoke.

"My home. Just on the outskirts of Gotham…" He trailed off, clenching and unclenching his long fingers. She watched him with an unreadable expression.

"Do I have a choice?" Once again, the lack of stutter, but this time he'd glanced up to observe the motivation for the question. He found a resigned expression and realized that she didn't expect a choice. This girl seemed to have very little fight in her at all.

"No."

The curt answer felt so harsh in such a soft kitchen, so he elaborated. "It is an imperitive of your safety… and since the Gotham PD will view me as a fugitive, I couldn't turn you over to them without assuming that you will be arrested for harboring me. Besides…" He shifted slowly forward before extending himself to his full length and looking her over with a clinical expression. "I'm not sure I can trust you."

As stark as the statement seemed, the words were soft, and even as they left his lips he could taste the lie. After all, it wasn't about him trusting her, it was about the facts. If he went on gut and his emotional response to her he would have to grudgingly admit that, even if she was strange, she was honorable. Someone who lived outside the law and helped those who had fallen out of society's favor without any sort of distinction… Well, let's say that he could at least sympathize with the girl. Then again, he'd been wrong before. So he left her in her silence, holding her arms across her body like a shield, before he silently turned and made his way toward the shower.

...….

Bruce shook his hair out and gingerly attempted to dry his body. The water had burned but soon relieved the sting as he washed away some of the dried blood. The stitches spit out hardened bits of skin that had begun to scab over and he observed them with a frown, even going to far to pick at one to see how far along he'd come. For the first time, still in the light of the day from the small window over the toilet, he saw the impeccable care she had taken. Acerbically, he offered a smile at the image of her trying to stitch him up by the light of those damn candles. It might have been a rightful image. His smirk slid down with a rather depressing observation that he could remember none of it. True, she hadn't been kidding when she said she'd given him too much morphine. He wondered if there were moments of consciousness that he couldn't recall. Afterall _five days_ was an incredibly long time for his injuries.

He put his face in his hand briefly and tried to rub away the epiphany that she'd no doubt have already had to help him to the bathroom… Or had to clean him up in a much more personal matter. Yes, he was about ready to get out of this tiny house. Wondering if he should even bother on being shy, he tied the towel at his waist and was unsurprised that she was still in the kitchen. Now, both of the dogs were next to her as she leaned her back on the counter from her seated position on the floor. She was writing, though he didn't care to look closer or to ask what about. She glanced up at his feet though her eyes went no higher than that on his body.

"C-c-c-clothes ar-rrre in your room… Er my r-r-oom uh the room…"

Her mouth pulled down into a deep frown and he didn't press her. Deciding that closing the door behind him would feel rude, but to leave the door open was weirdly inhuman, Bruce went inside and picked up the clothes laying over the back of a chair. Though he left the door open a crack, he stayed away from her having a visual of him unless she actually got up for the show; which he highly doubted she would. Once again he was struck with an amusing thought of her peeping through the door, it was amazing how little could entertain him after a stint of complete in activity. It was the bite on his ribs from the Joker's dog that hurt the worst. The one from the mob dog on his upper arm had barely healed and he was feeling a bit like a rag doll. This feeling was not assuaged by him pulling on the clothes. Though he was incredibly gracious to feel clean, even slinging the sweatpants low on his hips still left them about two inches too short. The t-shirt, however, was long enough to at least cover his exposed abdomen. He wondered if it was a boyfriend's that he was now going to have to worry about...

" I am bringing my dogs."

The authoritative voice caught him off guard from behind; he hadn't heard her move and the sound was much stronger than her normal speech. She'd probably been running over her line since he'd gotten in here. When he turned she was looking at him with her chin pointed up and full eye contact. Had she gotten more confident now that he wasn't walking around half naked and dirty?

"Yes… I assumed you would." She immediately lowered her head with a soft _oh_ but also nodded while looking at him once more. This time the glance was slightly more reproachful.

"…When…?"

Bruce gave half a thought to crawling back into the bed and telling her not until tomorrow. Now he knew it was no longer the morphine, but rather, a statement to how broken things had actually become. He doubted that he'd really stopped crying over Rachel. And then Harvey's fall from grace, and his own literal fall… Yes, things were a mess. And the Joker getting out pressed on him heavily. But then again, where would he be without these stressors after Rachel's death? Would he have been able to stomach past her for anything other than revenge? Maybe… No. He had to go back. He had to fix things. He had to do _something._ And he definitely had to get pants that fit better.

"…You can get ready. Bring whatever you'll need. I'm going to call Alfred."

Instead of questioning who this Alfred figure was that he seemingly answered too, Mary was too busy chewing on the inside of her cheek and then left without a word. He went out and back into the garage just as she was quietly shutting the bathroom door.

...…..

Mary finally returned, appearing much more red in the face than she had before she went into the bathroom. Her wet hair hung limply around her features, heavy as it dripped onto her shirt. She had consistently worn loose clothing with intricate patterns that he hadn't seen match yet. His memory supplied that Alfred said she'd gotten a scholarship for track—but she didn't much look like someone who was athletic.

Then again, she did look like someone who was used to running. Instead of asking that he politely inquired, "Who will miss you when you're not here?"

She shrugged, as if it wasn't relevant. And perhaps it wasn't. But from his experience, people would elaborate if you left them to stew in silence. Unfortunately this didn't seem to work with her and she was back in her room, seemingly packing when he finally came up behind her.

"Did I hurt you…? The other night…" He hoped she knew what he was talking about. Neither Bruce or that Batman was in the practice of hitting women and then asking questions later. Despite his haze, it was easy to recall the sensation of jamming her against the door and jamming her back into her own doorknob. She flitted her attention back to him, smoothing her clothes down into the suitcase before pulling out a backpack. Both the suitcase and the backpack were different florals.

"…Anyone who-who comes b-by knows that I l-l-leave a –uh lot."

The vigilante pursed his lips against her deliberate evasion of the question but let it go. Feeling out her mood cautiously, he sat on the bed as she went to the vanity that he hadn't paid much attention too. Alfred made it perfectly clear that Bruce's social skills left much to be desired. Often, Bruce Wayne himself was more of a mask than Batman was. But it hadn't always been a mask, once upon a time, Bruce had been the only person in his own skin. Slowly but surely, all who knew him before that time had evaporated like condensation caught on the pavement.

She'd watched him awkwardly, not fully comprehending why some billionaire wanted to witness her bedroom. And she was hoping, praying out a mantra, he wouldn't look too carefully. They didn't need batman anymore, not right now, and not the way that he was before. But Bruce Wayne was something different. He was a provider for the city, an image that needed to be upheld. It was time he left.

"Why do you keep candles lit?"

Busying herself by trying to put the items of her vanity so they fit neatly into the backpack, she didn't look at him "I t-t-try not to use electricity."

He nodded. Didn't make sense to him but he'd pretend otherwise. It wasn't as if it was a pressing concern of his to know the in depth reason.

"….Where is my suit?" The switching of topics seemed to frustrate her, and the change was refreshing in his eyes. At least she was reacting. But he had a feeling that it was genuinely difficult for her to be consistently caught of guard even if she was admirably trying to stick it out. He reminded himself that he was not the easiest person to socialize with unless he was pretending. Maybe she needed a little bit of that Bruce Wayne façade for her?

"I didn't kn-kn-know wwwhat to do with it so it uh is in the r-rafters of my garage? I th-th-thought you'd want it hidden…"A thoughtful pause and she looked at him with almost a spark of interest. " I can get it if you want…?" She'd said it with an unexpected levity. Like it was an honor instead of a weapon of mass destruction. Perhaps, to some eyes, it still was honorable.

"The men that tried to get to me… Did you kill them?" His tone, to his ears, belayed that he didn't much care what she said; as if it made little difference to him.

But already she was shaking her head insistently.

"I couldn't k-ki- _kill_ somebody." N

ot 'I couldn't kill somebody for that reason' nor 'I couldn't kill somebody who didn't try to kill me' or any sort of justification.

"…Not all people are so concerned with that little dose of morality. Especially when at least one of them was armed." He folded his hands together on his lap, intending to appear as small as was possible for his 6'2'' frame while she continued to purposefully pack her was impossible to not recognize the intimacy when he allowed himself to reflect for even a moment. And he knew, now, that maintaining this cool distance from her was not going to get him anywhere. If he was going to trust her enough to not basically keep her prisoner, then he must give her the chance to be an ally.

 _Besides,_ he thought to himself as she went to the stack of three candles on her vanity and lit them one by one, _I think she will like Alfred… and her dogs will definitely love the yard._

...…

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was a bit like a bird of prey, and she was much more of a songbird. Mary didn't feel comfortable swooping in on anyone, much less likely an undeniably attractive man. He looked so ridiculously large on her twin size bed, and so ridiculously dark against the blush tones of her walls. He was consistently different than anyone she'd treated before. Then again, they were all so different from one another. Many of the people that Mary brought into her tiny home were people who had seen little kindness in their lives. Occasionally this lead to those who would burst into gracious tears almost immediately upon realization that she genuinely wanted to help. Some were as non-verbal or more as Mary currently was… But she wasn't always like that.

There was a time, not long ago when she would bring them into her home in all sincerity. The Batman was the first one that she'd brought home since going to prison. The Batman seemed to be an exception to most rules. Her lips practically split at their seams from attempting to hold back the questioning she longed to release. Thoughtfully, her blue green eyes traveled to his profile. Yes, **before** she would have been more present, more insistent to watch over him and play doctor over his wounds and maybe the heart the so obviously needed mending. But now, she was out of practice and so thoroughly exhausted just by waking up in the morning and the few words she had given him that she couldn't even find the energy to ask him if he would be okay with her dressing his wounds.

"…The last woman to know who I was, both of me, is gone now. Not even two weeks ago."

He'd informed her silently causing the makeshift nurse to blink. The sudden intrusion of an intimate fact and she was back to twisting her hands and rooted to the spot.

"Wh-wh-what was she like?"

From most people, Bruce would have expected a condolence or an inquiry on how the last woman died but he didn't have to take long to respond to the unexpected question. There were few things that he didn't remember about Rachel and her image came to him swiftly with the kind of conviction that only true familiarity did.

"She was so…I don't know. Warm. And smart. She had these big blue eyes and the softest hair… But so driven, so sturdy…" He swallowed. "She died, you know. I didn't save her…couldn't save her. I chose something else that was more important."

He was amazed at the that flamed up forcefully behind his eyes. His low voice was a distant rumble, and she watched him, transfixed on this astounding person so deep in his grief he was hardly recognizable. But this was not the sort of man who would shed tears out of grief, and perhaps it was guilt that stemmed them. "I can't help but feel that I chose wrong..."

If he had been trying to manipulate her into being more open with him, it failed completely. His confession seemed to strike her dumb and frozen as if she could escape his notice. The weariness seemed to fade and finally, with such determination she reassured him with one of the few things that could possibly make the Batman smile.

"I am nothing l-like that. And y-y-you d-don't nee-need to s-s-sssave me."

After this confession she took a sharp breath and offered a hesitant smile. Which he willingly returned.


	4. Chapter Four:I Know What You've Done

_**AN: Finally we get a taste of the Joker. It's a slow start, but I can't help but want to build it, as frustrating as it's been. I've already planned the ending and a sequel and still I need to do all this middle stuff. But hey, the journey is what's important.**_

Bruce's curiosity wasn't so innocent as to feel like she was being interesting- rather it made her feel as if she was a summer storm barely on the horizon of his notice. Something to watch and debate whether it was going to bring relief from a dry hot season- or rip his house from the yard. Mary went so far as to picture him at the edge of some farm land; windblown, tan, and maybe with hay kept in the corner of his mouth. Yes, he definitely had the scowl of someone with larger things on his mind than a timid girl packing up her limited things.

It hadn't taken him long to fit back into his personality after the morphine began to be less prominent in his system. Mary might have called him unsettling to be around, but it's not like she was ever really comfortable around anyone regardless. Unlike her voice, however, her movements were done with a practiced determination. Even if the caped crusader hadn't been watching her with his weary intensity, he would have still been able to notice that she was quite used to packing.

"How are w-we all going to fit in your car?"

The voice was more confident when she wasn't looking at him but her lips still twitched around the words as if every syllable was uncomfortable.

"Well... They're going to be incredibly cozy with you in the back seat..."

His unexpected answer procured an unprecedented reaction of something that sounded like a laugh. The sound strangled out urgently as her mood dimmed.

"…I wasn't a-a-always like th-this you kn-kn-kn-know…"

Her admission was directed toward the backpack and Bruce could honestly say that he had hoped the backpack would answer—because he didn't know quite how to respond.

"I think…" His pause was heavy, the only thing moving was her fingers that twitched on the backpack. "I think I might have always been like this…"

She looked at him for a second, her gaze imploring but had a level of understanding he hadn't accounted for.

Mary was used to looking after the injured, and most injuries were not skin deep, the trauma that his lacerations came with was no doubt much more extensive than they appeared. Nodding, she pulled the zipper shut on her compacted life.

...

In effort to appear somewhat normal, the two decided to walk. He carried the duffel bag over his shoulder and she carried the backpack. The sweatshirt he wore was large enough to pull the hood up so he would have blended in with the denizens of the Narrows but without the choice for another pair of shoes he had to make do with the boots from the Batman suit. He had already begun scheming how to bring the suit back down from the rafters, but once he set a defense mechanism that would disarm the average thief or cop, he had to leave it be. There was too much of a chance that he would be caught with it…or she would. For added security, she walked around her usual route with her dogs. It was with the utmost hesitation that he had allowed this.

After all, the benefit was that it was something that appeared normal to anyone used to the area, and there was less of a chance for her to be recognized by anyone who was a stranger to the narrows. Even then, he wouldn't have let her go without insisting that she hook a communication device to the inside of one of her billowy sweaters. In case she decided to betray his faulting trust, it would double as a tracker device that he currently monitored. The small dot on the screen that represented her moved at a steady pace in the radius of a little under a mile. She was only doing a short walk in the immediate area. Bruce had to force himself to steel against any sort of expectations of the girl.

Most of his being rejected strongly to the idea of a figure knowing both halves of his life, but a very small part had already warmed over to the knowledge. And maybe it was all a distraction of his grieving heart. Maybe he just wanted someone to be close and he didn't mind how they got there. Even so, he tried to not be surprised or satisfied that she came back to the small house and gave him a hesitant smile. Mary continued to avoid eye contact but at least now she would turn her head all the way toward him. With both of the dogs with her in tow he could see why his half-conscious mind had given her a more intimidating figure.

Once outside—the dogs were far less playful and far more watchful. They were obviously there as a form of protection. And there was something about a small figure in charge of the two canines, instead of making her look like the weak link she seemed to draw strength from them.

Alfred had parked four blocks away from their location—nearer to a main street where people frequented often. It was something that Mary had come to notice that if you didn't act like you were hiding—people would assume that you weren't. Like turning a faucet, she suddenly rushed with a sense of warmth. She made a show of talking and laughing with him on the way that surprisingly wasn't hard to force. It was almost amusing how his eyebrows would crease in the middle every time she'd skimmed the back of his hand. Finally, in a low and friendly looking tone she informed him,"You're supposed to be pretending we are two close friends…"

In a quiet realization he shared a private smile with her and didn't have to wrack his brain long to find a topic that someone would bring up to a friend. Not Bruce Wayne the millionaire, but Bruce Wayne the engaging companion who he so rarely got to be. "How's your mother?" She smiled at the realization he was playing along. But it was no surprise to her that the vigilante could play his role—what was perhaps a shock was how easily she slipped on a façade so thick that it even stopped her stutter. Then again… his mind kept going back to the bark of a voice that she had when she chased the two men away from him with her dogs at her side. He was not the only one with many faces. But this did not bode well for the wriggling snake of worry in his gut that warned she could have been using the stuttering and shy face for him as yet another one of her masks.

It was halfway into chatting about a show that had recently aired on tv that he had never heard of, that the Lamborghini came into view. The car was a far cry from the Batmobile but a welcome sight nonetheless. It had its own protection systems that would alert them of everyone in the area. Wisely enough, Alfred didn't get out of the vehicle. A butler in these parts would be much more suspicious that a Lambo—at least with just the car he could have been a drug dealer or affiliated with the mob. But no one had money and hired British help that seemed to wear nothing but suits. If Bruce had been a different man, when he got into the car he would have hugged Alfred for dear life. But instead, after shoving the duffel bag into the trunk and wearily watching two monstrous dogs and a small girl get into his immaculate vehicle, he settled into the passenger seat with a heavy look at Alfred. To the old man's credit, Alfred's expression was benignly pleasant as he observed their backseat passengers.

"Well if I'd have known we had more company I might have made two trips." Mary, to her credit, was back to being her silent self. Looking smaller than ever and half shrinking behind her dogs she didn't even look at the butler. The dogs, responding in kind to their master, were still and watchful. "There have been few visitors to the house since your departure, but everything else is just as you left it."

His tone had belied the true suffering that Alfred went through when Bruce would disappear for days after injury of the heart or body. It had been five days since he had caught any glimpse of the grim man or his bat alias. Repeatedly, Alfred made breakfast every morning to bring it down to the hide-out even knowing the master wasn't tangled up in his off white sheets upstairs. He'd halfheartedly plan lunch, just in case. And then completely forget dinner. Five days of this and his cultured finger was running along the rim of a wine glass, going over everything he'd come to know. He had the pieces of what had happened around him, and knowing it to be untrue didn't change the fact that Bruce had lost near everything. How was one supposed to fill the space that the death of the woman he'd lost to a terrorist? Or to patch up the void left by the self destruction of hope? He wanted to assume that Mr. Wayne had every ability to persevere. But putting himself up for the crimes of five deaths, including that of Harvey Dent also gave the persistent notion there was a chance he might disappear entirely. Ms. Dawes might have been correct to assume that there might never be a day where Bruce would not be Batman.

But that morning Alfred had received his answer. And tomorrow, it appears his breakfast would not be wasted. And in fact, he'd have to adjust its serving size; which he would do so with the utmost happiness. Glancing back in the rear view mirror as he drove, the older man tightened his lips at what he saw.

Under his first impression, he'd thought that Master Wayne had brought home a stray girl. Her demeanor was so far into herself that it appeared near childish. But her eyes were incredibly sharp while staring out the window, and despite her billowing clothes you could still tell it was a woman's figure beneath. Alfred would put her at twenty six, and strange to boot. But, as usual, he would reserve judgment and serious conversation until Bruce initiated it. And Bruce, to his credit, managed to stay awake throughout the drive though his eyes were glazed over, already considering the life he was going back to.

...….

The house came into view with no small interest from Mary or the dogs. Bruce failed to notice and instead felt his concentration fixated at the point of trying to appear more awake than he felt. One thing that the suit did was also to structure him, almost like skin reinforcement—these hours of wakefulness without a bed or morphine were aching him to his marrow. Going into the garage located in the basement floor of the house at the bottom of his sloped driveway Bruce felt a thankfulness for his privacy. The rush of solitude was not dampened by the fact that he had two people and two dogs around them. Though he was positive Alfred was not going to fully accept the silence that had lasted in the car. No, once they were in the house, it was a different ball game. Parking next to the assortment of other vehicles the millionaire owned, Bruce popped his head over the top of the car to watch Mary fold herself out of the back seat.

For a split second he had felt at peace about her presence. When she wasn't wound so tightly that her lips twitched around her teeth, and the scowl managed to relax—she was all wavy hair and hazel eyes. The moment she caught sight of him in her peripheral vision, that anxious posture shifted over her like a shield and he himself felt ill at ease from her subtle movement.

"Alfred… This is Mary Harth."

To his credit, the old man's eyes twinkled. Seemingly oblivious of her almost turtle-like posture he had offered her head a slight bow as he turned to greet her out of the car.

"Ah, the runner. Charmed, Ms. Harth."

For a moment Bruce struggled with his companion's greeting and then remembered what Alfred said about her having gone to college on a track scholarship. Leave it to Alfred to come up with the only positive thing that he'd read on her record.

"But I think we should continue introductions inside, don't you?"

As he spoke, the man waited for Mary to give an imperceptible nod. She seemed to not know what to do with her hands and held them strangely far from her side as if half prepared to run; maybe she was? But still she followed with a wide-eyed glance toward Bruce. Bruce shuffled in after the dogs with small hesitation, and behind him the door shut automatically with a soft beep.

"I will place your things in the main wing, Ms. Harth. Please allow me some time to clear it as it has not been used for a while and I don't think you'd like the dust bunnies for company."

Mary seemed to not know whether it was okay to laugh, and Bruce felt the sudden need to sigh at her heightened form of awkwardness. Seeing in her own home was one thing, but she obviously did not feel at ease here amongst the click of marble floors. Alfred was hardly deterred and kept his polite and tight smile.

"But first, I think you could use a drink. Master Wayne?"

Bruce had been observing the situation with the same intensity he seemed to do most things, but Alfred had a feeling that one drink would put the man right to sleep.

"Whiskey… Alfred."

"And for you, Ms. Harth?"

She gave no indication except a tightening of her fingers on empty palms, and finally a tight nod. Once Alfred was gone, the master of the mansion turned to face her.

"He won't bite. Though if you continue to behave in that way, he will attempt to adopt you…"

Instead of offering a small smile as she might have done this morning, the full lips tugged down into a frown.

"I-I'm sor-r-ry. I just…"

She brought her hands forward, flexing them as if they would give her an answer. At her hip Yoko put her head beneath her owner's palm—obviously attempting to calm her. In response, Mary sighed and took the first full breath that she'd probably taken in his house.

"I am not around people…"

In the same burst of confidence that Bruce had had when he told her about Rachel, he stepped forward to her upper back with the tips of his fingers.

"Let's sit in the living room…"

 **~(+)~**

...…

We cast shadows. They are a part of us, yes, but they come from us. An extension of dark that follows our steps on whatever path we are taking.

His shadow didn't look like it was following him.

Rather than being an extension of his towering hunched form— _he_ looked like he came from _them_. Like some bit of darkness decided to reach out and create something of it's own, as if It was done being attached to something else—this was darkness by itself.

Pete didn't know if he was nervous. But he knew he felt wrong. Every time the Joker was in the room you just felt _wrong._ Like you weren't supposed to be here, like the last thing you wanted to do was to look at him but you also couldn't turn your eyes away; terrified of the moment he might turn his attention to you. But you crave it, and want him to recognize you.

Pete had been on every drug he'd ever heard of, and was sure he'd tried mixes that there wasn't an official name for. Pet had never been on any drugs that made him feel as important as when the Joker thought you were important.

So this shadow thing, this thing of darkness, meanders his way into the room with a purposeless and almost jerky pace. You knew he was excited by the twitch of his lips, his tongue flicking out to taste the red slathered across his face. Pete hated when he was excited, and the little hum his boss was giving was enough to make the back of his thighs start to shake imperceptibly. God, he wished he'd gone down like Georgie.

Georgie had been with him when they'd found the Bat, and though Pete had gotten away clean, Georgie had gotten a chunk out of his upper arm from what they thought was a stray dog.

Pete should have known they were just the bait of the situation around the Batman. They were the guinea pigs to go out and see what was happening. They were the boss's eyes when the boss couldn't be everywhere.

He wondered what the Joker would have done once he realized those two Rottweiler's belonged to that witch of a woman that came out of the alleyway. All in floral with the same snarl as her dogs, she'd scared Pete to the point where he'd forgotten the gun in the hand. The Joker wouldn't have been scared off so easily, the Joker would have got to the Bat.

Pete wondered how much he was going to have to pay for losing his nerve.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, both of them had been wired the whole time. And though all Georgie's camera had caught was the sight of the Batman's crumpled form and the snarling mutt that guarded him, Pete had shaky evidence of the encounter beyond any serious injury.

"Play i **t** agaaain."

The Joker grinned, tossing an the object toward Pete with jerky aim that he had to struggle to catch. Hastily he plugged it in and watched for the Joker's reaction. Obviously, the Joker had seen the live version on the small screen that was hooked up. But connecting the wired device directly to a much larger screen—then maybe the Joker would find what he was looking for. A way to locate the Batman, something to use against him, or maybe the clown just wanted to see his arch nemesis down? Pete didn't question him out loud but his eyes darted frantically between the Joker and the screen.

Meanwhile, the terrorist had calmed his restless motion as the camera began relaying what it knew. It started off slow when Pete had turned it on, joking with Georgie in the lighthearted cynicism that most men in Gotham seemed to have. Their amused and morbid conversations led them into the same alleyway they'd seen a massive Rottweiler. Even poorly executed film that shook with every step he'd taken, Pete could see the fierceness of the animal. He heard his own voice off camera

" _Wait, man, don't go down there that's a mean looking fucker for sure…"_

" _Yeah but he's got something…shit…oh shit…do you see that?"  
_

Pete actually heard his heart rate increase because the camera's speaker was close enough to his heart on his jacket. The dog had been guarding the Batman and offered them a growl sincere enough to lift the hair on the back of his neck. Both men had taken their guns out, but unlike a man, the dog was uncaring as to what possible danger that awaited him. That dog was read to do it's job. After their one warning he dog moved faster than either of them had been ready for, and just as Pete went to take aim at the monster, a voice cut through all other sound over the film.

The woman, obviously the owner of the attack animal, was larger in his memory. On the inconsistent film she looked decidedly less fearful and didn't match the harshness of her voice. All big long hair and even larger eyes. But the expression on her face boiled down to something dangerous and protective.

The Joker remained fixed on the screen and stepped closer, his head tilting and hunch creeping further up toward his ears, as the woman continued her very realistic threat to let the other dog go. It was at this point that Georgie had attempted to crawl away, the other dog was already guarding the Batman on the ground. Regretfully Pete's attention was fully on the woman and the dog, the camera missed the Bat's action on the ground, helplessly rolling his head in attempt to rouse himself in the face of a threatening situation.

Pete turned his head back toward the towering creature next to him, expecting…something. But the Joker was incredibly still. Dark eyes locked onto the screen as if waiting for something, even as the camera had now become nearly impossible to watch as Pete sprinted away from certain death or injury at the teeth of bloodthirsty dogs.

"…Agai **n**."

Dreading the possible consequences, Pete decided that there were more immediate consequences in not doing as he said and he rushed to determine which button to press in the half dark of the room. Very little light ever came in, even in the full light of day, and his shakey fingers provided even more of a challenge. In annoyance the boss jerked him away by his collar and instead found the rewind button without even looking toward the box.

Now less than a foot away from the screen, he looked like something that was about to pounce, ready to spring into the footage if he so wished it.

The images moved backwards all the way to the point of…not the batman… but the woman.

"Now _whoo_ oo do we have _**here**_?"

The Joker's nose nearly pressed to her image, his gloved hand coming up to streak against the plasma screen.

"I think uh, she might work for him maybe?"

His voice was nearly breathless with relief after not facing immediate pain from the man before him. The Joker was silent and terribly still with his fingers pressed up against the picture. Maybe he would try to grab what was inside… Slowly his tongue had dragged across the inside of his slackened mouth, breathing more heavily as a grin split his face.

"Get Dim. I need him to get a naaaame for me."

…...

Mary Harth was a lightweight. Bruce could have figured that out by her slight form and the lack of apparent alcohol he saw in her tiny home. But this appeared to be heightened to an extent he didn't expect. True, she was relaxed now, falling into the couch with a softness he hadn't seen from her before. Now here large clothes looked more like drapes rather than shrouds to hide behind.

 _I-it's the pills th-they ha-have me o-on._

She'd told him with a shake to her head. Her face had a tint of pink on it and she'd even cast him a couple of those shy smiles. She was amusingly stiff every time Alfred would enter to the room and Bruce couldn't help but marvel at her lack of judgment of his character if she was less afraid of the Batman rather than Bruce Wayne's elderly butler.

Then again… If she'd truly had to clean him up as often as he thought she would have, perhaps he couldn't be frightening to her anymore. Or perhaps her one glass of her three fingers of whiskey was just having this much of an effect.

"What are you on medication for?"

His brow creased, very suddenly wondering if he'd poisoned her by offering her alcohol.

"Oh you know… everything."

She smiled at her glass, holding it up to the fire's light that Alfred had kindly set for them both. Bruce decided not to press the matter, having set down his empty glass on the sleek coffee table in front of him. She'd tucked her legs up so they could rest against the arm of the couch and he reached to take her glass as well. Thoughtlessly obliging he let her rest with her own thoughts for a second. His own were happily quieted by the whiskey though not to the extent he was sure hers were. Still, he tried to maintain his image of a reclusive playboy who may-or-may-not be an alcoholic; but it barely had any truth to it. A man with as many secrets and guards up as himself didn't have the luxury of drinking heavily. Then again, a man with so many secrets had to have at least one drink now and again.

Alfred had already bid them both goodnight at this point, though Bruce had a feeling that the old man hardly ever went to sleep. He could still go and talk with him if he felt the need. Even as the master of the house, Bruce had never thought to invade the other man's space. Several times he thought to break their easy silence but decided that no conversation was worth enough to break her obvious comfort. The ease was so dense that he hardly noticed when she'd fallen asleep on the arm of the couch that she'd leaned on. Bruce stood up, wondering how to wake her. If he stayed here much longer then he too would fall asleep.

But looking over her now he was reminded of his bed, of the loneliness that awaited him in under the sheets. Brief, torturous images of Harvey's molten face, him threatening Jim Gordon's family… the Joker's cackle. It was enough to make him want to pick Mary up and bring her to bed with him.

But no, he couldn't do that to himself. He couldn't do that to her.

Even if she would agree, which he thought was a statistical improbability that she actually would agree, Bruce wouldn't bring her into it any more than she already was.

Lost at an impasse. The weary protector ambled over to the ottoman and revealed two blankets. One of which he tucked gently over her, and the other he put over himself as he settled back onto the couch. There had been nights of necessity when he'd been forced to crash on the couch, unable to get all the way to his room. But tonight he felt that it was his choice, and he was convinced that the slight breathing to his right would influence some sort of peace in his dreams.

And Bruce Wayne managed to hold onto that moment of stillness, and faded into a heavy sleep where for just a few hours he was warm and at home.

That is, until the crash came in through his window.

 ** _AN: I didn't think I was going to do a cliffhanger. But like I said before, I update when I get the chance and the week is hard so I was afraid this was my only chance. Let me know what you think if you have the time._**


	5. Chapter 5: The First Sign of Trouble

Alfred hardly found himself ever leaving his place of employment. It wasn't often done where "the help" would stay in the household like some object at someone's disposal. When it was Bruce's parents that he served, Alfred would often retire sometime after dinner was cleaned, and then returned for breakfast. He'd had a life. But that's what the Batman tended to do. It absorbed lives. More than just half of Bruce's identity—it was a being of its own and got many people wrapped up in the black hole that it tended to be. But not all of the imagery associated with the Batman was dark and gloom. Alfred had a strong belief in what Batman stood for. After all, that night he lost his employers to the underbelly of Gotham, but he also lost two of his dearest friends. And since being pulled to the chaotic center that was outside of his privileged reality, it was impossible to go back. Even if Batman hadn't come into the picture, he wondered if the image would look any different before him now. After all, there's no doubt he would have stayed with Bruce Wayne until the end. Even without Batman Bruce was always fit for getting himself into tragedy and trouble.

So maybe, the sight he was looking at right now was inevitable.

After returning calmly from the linen closet to ensure that his bath would be stocked with clean and fluffy towels he went to his room to locate equally orderly pajamas. Not everything was so prim and proper, however. On the right side of his bed Rottweiler the size of a small bear had started a growl low in it's throat like the threat of some great engine. His adrenaline having spiked through the roof immediately was filled with a sharp resignation. It was one thing to have a female house guest bring her two incredibly large dogs—but it was another thing entirely for these dogs to go wandering in his private dwellings and deciding that the butler wasn't allowed in his own room. Cracking an exasperated smile Alfred shook his head,

"Now, now. We've already met, that's enough."

Intending to hit the light switch he extended his arm and the breeze took this exact opportunity to blow through the room…through his _open_ window. The stroke of fear didn't even have the chance to form correctly before an arm that was as wide as his neck was long was already wrapped around the old butler's neck. There were signs he should have noticed, after all. The open window, the spicy smell of sweat and an aftershave that he wouldn't recognize as his own, and the dog… the dog wasn't wearing the charming collar that Mary's two dogs had been sporting. Even as Alfred struggled, he realized too late that the click of the gun next to his temple meant that he wouldn't be getting out of the stranglehold anytime soon.

...…

When she woke up, she knew instantly she wasn't at home. Before her eyes could open her skin could feel the difference of air that belonged in a large and open room—one that was dark. Rooms this big always felt as if she was too vulnerable; there were too many places to hide in a place that was spacious enough to hold so much darkness. Rubbing her tongue against the roof of her very dry mouth her fingers absently went searching for the dog at the foot of the couch but instead she felt nothing. Reaching down further, she finally brought her half-asleep attention to an empty marble floor beneath her hand. Feeling unsettled in more ways than one, she moved as silently as she could in the attempt to not break the sleep of the man who was in the sofa adjacent to her.

Under the morphine Bruce had slept hard, all open mouth and softness. In his sober clarity, even asleep, he looked much more like the creature that had stalked Gotham on the tops of its towers for years. The limited night's light that came in from the window was cold and only emphasized the shadows on his stony face and it was at this moment… That Mary realized that not only would he be able to make her feel better about this large empty house, but she would not be able to trust him. Regardless of how nice of a cell this was, she was a prisoner here. She wondered dimly whether any of her patients or friends had noticed her absent already. She was in a dangerous line of work, making friends with everyone and treating those she found indiscriminately did not save her from making enemies in the process. Healing the wrong person was often like hurting the right person—she had betrayed people by keeping those alive who others had wished dead. But this also made her some powerful allies which was the only reason that she survived this long.

Seemed strange that saving a supposed hero would have lead to being locked up…again.

Feeling eyes on her, Mary wondered briefly if he was awake and only waiting to see what she'd do, but his breathing was just as silent as when she'd woken and there appeared no shift in his body language. Regardless… The dread of the large open space full of unfamiliar dark corners made her anxious. The shock of hearing his low voice would not help matters and the warmth of the whiskey was gone from her belly. Any sort of courage she'd had was now in an uncomfortably full bladder and a pressing anxiety to find her dogs.

Her movement Gotham's manor did not ease the building sense of dread. Her own home creaked, groaned, cracked and squeaked with most steps. The water, when it finally came out of the taps, would sing loudly for you as the pipes adjusted to your demands. This did not feel like a home, this felt like a tomb or a fortress. Or, in the Batman's case, maybe it was both. Using the walls to navigate the home was a desperate attempt at feeling unseen. Somehow, having any sort of light would only make her feel more vulnerable. Besides, the overhead lights she'd seen when they came in were a far cry from her choice of peaceful candles. It was only when she was confident that one of the open doorways that she glimpsed in had all the tell-tale signs of a well stocked kitchen did Mary finally grace herself with some of the ample lighting in the household.

With one switch the flash of the bulbs was enough to make her squint and it lit up the cold marble floors, the shiny steel of the counter, and the dark heat of the wood embellishments that made up the chef's kitchen. She wanted to feed Yoko and Bert and she was sure that Alfred would keep enough ingredients to make two dogs very happy… if only she knew where to start looking. Normally she would stock up on beef stew. She herself hadn't eaten meat for a long time but dogs needed meat to be able to sustain health. Opening the freezer she thankfully found a large steak that would spoil them both rotten. Much like people, dogs settled better after they've had a good meal.

The only reason they would have left her side would be to patrol the new area… Hopefully neither of them had attempted to mark what they saw as their new territory.

Beginning to fill the sink to help the steak defrost in the warm water she heard the unmistakable sound of nails clicking against the marble floors outside the kitchen. Turning off the water to be sure, she turned her head with a smile. Of course they would intuitively know that she was making food that they could be a part of. But, they would be naturally concerned that she wasn't in the spot they left her.

Walking out into the hallway , in the one strip of light that now poured from the kitchen, she had to perk her ears to realize that the trot of dog feet was headed _away_ from her in the kitchen and away from the hopefully still sleeping Bruce. It was the moment that a dim growl followed by the silence being utterly shattered by a growl that Mary turned from playful amusement to a tense worry. Her dogs had not come from a happy home where they always took kindly to strangers. And if Alfred was still upstairs and had been caught in the wrong light to look like an enemy to either of her dogs… well, let's just say she wanted to be there to smooth things over. If it was either one of them cornering someone who was actually meant to be there, it would undoubtedly be Yoko. Despite the known dominance of most male dogs, Yoko had always been the one to be more protective.

She was already running, night vision having already been ruined by the bright lights of the kitchen, but the heightened anxiety of her dogs having that old sweet man cornered lead her not to care. She paused when she was met with the hallway opening up to a sort of foyer and realized she was at the front door. A grand staircase to her left was framed by large windows at the top and let enough of the light of the outdoors in where she could see that the area was utterly empty. Listening over the silence was tricky, but she was sure there was no longer the tick-tck sound of dog nails on hard floors, nor did she hear any growling.

" _Yoko"_ Her harsh shouting whisper beseeched the aggressive animal to make itself known to her. In an unexpected twist, she got no response. No dog loped up to her looking sheepish and ready to apologize nor did she hear an impertinent growl that was sure they found an enemy.

Throwing her hands to the side, she went back to go and get Bruce to tell her where Alfred's room was so that she could at least locate where the wronged man would be. She got all the way back into the hallway before a clear yelp resounded over the large and empty space.

"Yoko you…" Voicing her quiet frustration her face heated up at the thought of Bruce finding his butler had to fight off her dog in the midst of trying to get up from bed to get a drink of water. Pounding the stairs on bare feet only made quiet sticking sounds on the grand staircase though she relished the idea of surprising her misguided pup with a soundless approach from behind.

It was when she got up the initial staircase that it splits to the left and right, no doubt leading to separate wings. She'd known she'd heard noises from her left but it was the right that had a light on toward the end of the hallway. Frozen with the weight of the two variables she stared to the sliver of light about halfway down a very long hallway before the sound of hurried footsteps coming down from the other staircase. It was in a flurry of movement that the sounds crashed over each other and reached to a crescendo and a stop before Mary could even turn.

The chaos of the surprise from the dark was so much easier to deal with than the feel of someone wrapping a grip on her upper arm and the other hand going to her mouth. Being unable to feel her assailant didn't make Mary's reaction any less frenzied. She lifted her foot and kicked the shin behind her without any sort of mercy. She opened her mouth to scream but instead bit the hand that was near her lips. All the while she went to turn viciously her hands flying up to protect herself to scratch or punch whatever she could hold. The figure was caught off guard from the ferocity of the attack but luckily it wasn't consistent as a dog came trotting down into her panicked view. Her moment of recognition was all that the intruder needed to push their weight into her back and she went falling

Smacking

Crumpling

Down the stairs.

...…

Two out of three of the denizens of Gotham's mansion having been lead into temptations—Bruce did not have the same luxury. His mind worked much faster than the space of gravity around him and he must have become aware the moment that the rock had seen fit to puncture his window. He saw the panes erupt from their proud standings to buckle inwards, the glass didn't even take the time to crack and instead shattered first. Even in the dim lighting the shards glinted as if it was snow and ice coming through on the moon's light.

These observations lead to one damnable conclusion that collided with his coffee table in an anticlimactic thud. The rock was as large as his hand and a piece of paper was tied to the outside with twine; but even so, it would have taken an indomitable throw to get it to eviscerate his re-enforced window. Barely having time to shield himself from all of the debris, Bruce felt some of it land indiscriminately in his hair, scratching his arms with the threat of what might have happened if the larger pieces had found their way to the couch from which he slept. The slow-motion of these events culminated to a point where suddenly he was moving in hyper speed. He was ignoring the pain in his feet from the pinpricks of glass and he was picking up the rock and wrestling at the string while simultaneously retreating toward the more dense darkness of the house.

His dark eyes only were taken away from the window to frantically scan for Mary. Even as he brought the piece of paper to his eyes his mind worked overtime to rectify the betrayal that had undoubtedly occurred. _She told someone. And now, he was done for._ But not yet. He could find the clues, he could unravel the mystery, he could find a solution… If only he could get his hands to stop shaking long enough to unfold the paper.

 ** _i'vE b3en loOKing foR YoU…_**

He should have expected as much. The letters were cut crudely from newspapers to relay the ominous message and already Bruce was retreating further back. He pocketed the note as he ran toward the panic room. He wouldn't have his best suit, the one lost in Mary's rafters. That is… if the suit was even still in the rafters. He actually had to fight the sudden loss of breath that stilled in his throat. Wondering how far things had fallen if he could even pick them up. But no, he only spent half a second in despite before going to action.

Yes, the best suit was gone. But no use crying over spilled milk and such. The Bat hardly needed lights to find his way to the room where he could slip in unnoticed… Even if Mary had disappeared and took the secrets she'd stolen, he still needed the suits for its weapons and tools. Yet, when his fingers had touched the hidden doorway to recognizing the fingerprints of the rightful owner, he found immediate hesitation.

The source of his hesitation was the, somehow painfully close, sirens. Police. His entire body went cold as he realized the light coming in through the window was not the innocuous moonlight of before but instead flashed red and blue. They were _here._ They were on the outskirts of Gotham and outside of their jurisdiction. So he had to make a choice. He could assume that they knew everything and were here to take him in with all the necessary brute force. Or they didn't know yet and by him going into the panic room and putting on a suit would tell them everything…

Bruce had a second to make this choice. Because if he _didn't_ open the door to the hidden Batcave then he would have to quickly burn the note in his pocket and muss up his bed to make it look like they'd just roused Bruce Wayne. He made his choice. His hand touched the edge of the door as if to open it but, instead, pressed his finger and drew a pattern that he'd hoped to never use—and sealed it.

He was just "rinsing" his mouth with whiskey to further his image as a slumbering and irritable millionaire when he heard the police move to knock down the door. Instead of allowing them to do so, Bruce ran to open it with an irritated expression plastered all over his stony visage. It didn't take much effort to appear the spoiled, drunken millionaire when the Gotham police at his doorstep were perhaps one of the last people that he'd ever want to see.

"What _what?_ "

The cop in front of him was already winded, having not even made a dent in the ancient mahogany of the Wayne mansion's door. Attempting to recover enough decency for both cops to look confused. One of them was already pushing his mouth into the walkie talkie at his shoulder and muttering _Wayne answered the door._

The other cop, however, had the much less pleasant task of saying;

"Mr. Wayne, please step aside, me and the Gotham police force have the grounds to enter the house."

It was with a jolt the Bruce fought to keep up with his façade with no modest amount of difficulty. "On what charges?" thankfully his gruff voice could have been mistaken for some pricks showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the night, instead of being attributed fear of the Batman being caught.

"We received news of a reported kidnapping from a man who stopped at this location and we need to search the premises." The cop held up his hand before Wayne could protest, and though his brow sweat the uniformed man looked downright suspicious. "And we have legal permission to search your house if there is a chance of life or death… especially given that the woman in question has already been verified to be not at home. So please…"

The hand that had stretched between the two men, then trailed to the gun at his side.

"Move away from the door or I will arrest you on grounds for obstructing justice. And potentially for the kidnapping of Mary Harth."

 **...~(+)~...**

 _ **AN: I know I know it's short! But I wanted to get this out and I've been sick. The action is starting to pick up and I have to wonder what you guys are thinking? If you have the time, review and tell me what's going to happen so I can have the sick pleasure of confirming your suspicions or, even better, the pleasure to deny them!**_


End file.
